Greene, Robert · published 1630 · first performed or written 1589 [1586-1590] (Annals) comedy · Queen Elizabeth's Men T15 Friars and holy orders in plot typicality 0.67 · 508 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T15: friar, lord, holy, friars, robin, peggy, lacie, angelo, love, nun.
Peggie, I pleaded first to get your grace for him: But when mine eyes surveyed your beauteous looks, Love like a wag, straight dived into my heart, And there did shrine the Idea of yourself: Pity me though I be a farmer's son, And measure not my riches, but my love. You are very hasty for to garden well, Seeds must have time to sprout before they spring, Love ought to creep as doth the dial's shade, For timely ripe, is rotten too too soon. Deus hic, room for a merry friar, What, youth of Beccles, with the keeper's Lass? 'Tis well, but tell me hear you any news, No, friar, what news. Hear you not how the Pursuivants do post, With Proclamations through each Country town? For what, gentle friar? tell the news. Dwellest thou in Beccles, & hear'st not these news? Lacy the Earl of Lincoln is late fled From Windsor Court, disguised like a Swain, And lurks about the Country here unknown. Henry suspects him of some treachery, And therefore doth proclaim in every way, That who can take the Lincoln Earl, shall have Paid in the Exchequer twenty thousand Crowns. The Earl of Lincoln? friar, thou art mad, It was some other, thou mistakest the man: The Earl of Lincoln? why it cannot be. Yes, very well my Lord, for you are he, The keeper's daughter took you prisoner, Lord Lacy yield, I'll be your jailor once. How familiar they be, Bacon. Sit still, and mark the sequel of their loves. Then am I double prisoner to thyself, Peggie, I yield, but are these news in jest? In jest with you, but earnest unto me: For why, these wrongs do wring me at the heart, Ah how these Earls and Noblemen of birth, Flatter and feign to forge poor women's ill! Believe me, Lass, I am the Lincoln Earl, I not deny, but 'tired thus in rags, I lived disguised to win fair Peggy's love. What love is there where wedding ends not love? I meant, fair girl, to make thee Lacy's wife. I little think that Earls will stoop so low. Say, shall I make thee Countess ere I sleep? Handmaid unto the Earl so please himself: A wife in name, but servant in obedience. The Lincoln Countess, for it shall be so, I'll plight the bands and seal it with a kiss. gog's wounds, Bacon, they kiss, I'll stab them. Oh hold your hands (my Lord) it is the glass. choler to see the traitors 'gree so well, Made me think the shadows substances. 'Twere a long poniard, my Lord, to reach between Oxford and Fressingfield, but sit still and see more. Well, Lord of Lincoln, if your loves be knit, And that your tongues and thoughts do both agree: To avoid ensuing jars, I'll hamper up the match, I'll take my Portace forth, and wed you here, Then go to bed and seal up your desires. friar, content, Peggie how like you this? What likes my Lord, is pleasing unto me.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 594–656 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 12 of 33 in this edition
Length
508 words · 708 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T15 — Friars and holy orders in plotcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.672 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T19 · seed 44: T20 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Peggie, I pleaded firſt to get your grace for him: But when mine eyes ſuruaid your beautious lookes, Loue like a wagge, ſtraight dined into my heart, And there did ſhrine the Idea of your ſelfe: Pittie me though I be a Farmers ſonne, And meaſure not my riches, but my loue. You are very haſty for to garden well, Seeds muſt haue time to ſprout before they ſpring, Loue ought to creepe as doth the dyals ſhade, For timely ripe, is rotten too too ſoone. Deus hic, roome for a merry Fryer, What, youth of Beckles, with the Keepers Laſſe? 'Tis well, but tell me here you any newes, No, Fryer, what newes. Heare you not how the Purſeuants doe poaſt, With Proclamations through each Country towne? For what, gentle Fryer? tell the newes. Dwelſt thou in Beckles, & hear'ſt not theſe newes? Lacy the Earle of Lincolne is late fled From Windſor Court, diſguiſed like a Swaine, And lurkes about the Country here vnknowne. Henry ſuſpects him of ſome treachery, And therefore doth proclaime in euery way, That who can take the Lincolne Earle, ſhall haue Paid in the Exchequer twenty thouſand Crownes. The Earle of Linolne? Fryer, thou art mad, It was ſome other, thou miſtakeſt the man: The Earle of Lincolne? why it cannot be. Yes, very well my Lord, for you are he, The Keepers daughter tooke you priſoner, Lord Lacy yeeld, Ile be your gailor once. How familiar they be, Bacon. Sit ſtill, and marke the ſequell of their loues. Then am I double priſoner to thy ſelfe, Peggie, I yeeld, but are theſe newes in ieſt? In ieſt with you, but earneſt vnto me: For why, theſe wrongs doe wring me at the heart, Ah how theſe Earles and Noble-men of birth, Flatter and faine to forge poore womens ill! Beleeue me, Laſſe, I am the Lincolne Earle, I not deny, but tyred thus in rags, I liued diſguiſd to win faire Peggies loue. What loue is there where wedding ends not loue? I meant, faire girle, to make thee Lacies wife. I little thinke that Earles will ſtoop ſo low. Say, ſhall I make thee Counteſſe ere I ſleepe? Handmaid vnto the Earle ſo pleaſe himſelfe: A wife in name, but ſeruant in obedience. The Lincolne Counteſſe, for it ſhall be ſo, Ile plight the bands and ſeale it with a kiſſe. Gogs wounds, Bacon, they kiſſe, Ile ſtab them. Oh hold your hands (my Lord) it is the glaſſe. Coller to ſee the traitors gree ſo well, Made me thinke the ſhadowes ſubſtances. 'Twere a long Poinard, my Lord, to reach betweene Oxford and reſingfield, but ſit ſtill and ſee more. Well, Lord of Lincolne, if your loues be knit, And that your tongues and thoughts doe both agree: To auoid inſuing iarres, Ile hamper vp the match, Ile take my Portace forth, and wed you here, Then goe to bed and ſcale vp your deſires. Fryer, content, Peggie how like you this? What likes my Lord, is pleaſing vnto me.